25.3.14

Oh Bengal
Its not gold its battery acid
The people they killed tonight are cringing in their graves
Just like Iqbals generation must feel about pakland

Forever your lies seem to extend,
Your massacre last May set our hearts in harmony
A chorus of Shariatian whistles.
We woke up.

In spring, Oh sweet child of mine,
The fragrance from your donor developmented dungheaps
Acts like a perpetual aromatic facepalm,
Ah, somebody pass us the buckets!
In autumn, Oh fabled construct of Calcutta
In the genetically modified paddy fields
I have seen sweet subaltern smiles spread over your poverty pornographs.

Oh children of Hawa, what about the day when there will be no shade but our deeds?
What a sight all this flag worship and cheap jatra?
What a guilt have you miscast
At the feet of the innocent?
And you sing about your fucking rivers!
Like muppets on a string.

Oh fake feminist representatives of shaytanarchy, words from your lips
Are like black magic to the masses.
Ah, take some more pills!
It wont be long
Multitudes may join your stupid, uninspiring song
Nevertheless soon you will be gone.

24.3.14

A photochemical treatment to bring your colour down to a strict vanilla for the nation's viewing pleasure and ease. The costs for this pretty radical procedure have been brought down in recent decades by a skilful interplay of government policy, narcissism and spinelessness which has encouraged patients to apply bleach before even walking into the studio.

11.3.14

A tactic of our times, of perhaps some benefit and not exclusively feminist, to gun somebody on a peripheral utterance, a joke, a clearly political character assassination, or character defence in order to make discursive space for your politics, which trumps everything else, because of course, its yours.

7.3.14

She holds the burrow map
her uncle left behind from the war
With an iron grip
Just in case she looses sight
Of the familiar dead ends
In which she likes to party.
And play badminton.

Images of the first rays
of the rising sun
Are painted over an old exit in her cave.
A tribute to Hendrix, And When We Was Fab.

Nostalgia for a a Golden Age
That never was. Hers.

"Its not her fault"
Said Advocate Hingshar Malik.
"Its patriarchy, not false herstory".

Bipolar bindihood, with
Octahedral ovaries
The geometry of the gigolo
Collapses in on itself.
As liberation mortgaged white power
Is found to empower
the gravitational attraction
that ensures this revolution

This actual black hole of calcutta.
(Not the one whitey made up)
Configures those bengali mental shutters.

On the bookshelf, to the web.
To the person in your bed.
But it is you that covered up the dead.